Aftermath
by SherlockianReaperess
Summary: The past three years have not been easy on John...and after so long of dealing with the pain that had been brought on by hallucinations of the man he'd watched fall to his death he can no longer cope. Not that he'd ever really tried to...Except that what was suppose to be an easy relief has gotten far more complicated that he ever could have imagined. **TW**Mentions of Suicide


John felt alone. He had felt alone for the last three years. Lestrade had attempted to keep their friendship as it had been. They had gone to pubs and drank a few pints for the first months. Then it became obvious that John wasn't actually trying to heal. Lestrade stopped trying to force him, and now he only checked up every other week. Mrs. Hudson hadn't quite given up on John, but she understood that he needed space. John had broken Anderson's nose when he tried to say something about Sherlock in front of him. Surprisingly, Sally Donavan had let him and spit in Anderson's face afterwards. Mycroft visited once to say he was 'so terribly sorry'. John had shot the politician in the shoulder, but Mycroft had refused to press charges and made the incident disappear. John lived life in a void. He didn't see his therapist anymore. There was no need. He'd stopped going when the hallucinations started. He'd started seeing him everywhere. John would hear the faint whispers of violin music in his empty flat before he would start sobbing into a pillow so as to not alarm Mrs. Hudson. He'd almost been run over after seeing a hallucination while crossing the street. John knew, then, that he had broke. Dr. John Watson had gone unquestionably insane in a world that was nothing but insanity. His best friend had killed himself. John had made up his mind not long after his revelation about his mental status how he was going to fix everything.

John was now standing at the gate of his solution. The roof of St. Bart's. John strode towards the ledge of the building confidently, but slowly. The blood stains from Moriarty's skull were still there. The darkened red liquid long since dried but a reminder of why he was there. He could see it all now. See Sherlock standing on the ledge. John found himself before the ledge which Sherlock had stood on. John's hands did not shake as he gazed down over the side. The pavement below seemed to mock him. He'd seen Sherlock's broken and battered body down there. John rested a hand on the ledge.

"John," the deep baritone said. John's stomach seized as he heard the voice. The hallucinations were back. He'd been prepared. He knew they would surface. He was, after all, standing where Sherlock had stood before mounting the damned ledge. John didn't bat an eyelash. Didn't turn.

"John!" the voice was more forceful now. Louder. John faltered for a moment as his resolve cracked slightly. He had to look even when he knew it would only be a hallucination. He couldn't miss the opportunity to see Sherlock one last time no matter how fake the interaction was. John looked behind him, and there _he_ was. Sherlock standing in his normal attire. The coat which John had always secretly adored. Secretly loved to see on Sherlock. The detective was watching him with those silver eyes of his.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't stop you."

"I'm here, John." the hallucination said. "You still believed in me, even when I told you not to." Now the hallucination was smiling. That small genuine smile that made John's heart soar. Now it only made it ache. John's lips slipped into his own bitter smile.

"No you're not." John stated. The hallucination looked confused. That furrowing of the brow and downturn of the lips which gave him that adorable look which John loved. He loved everything about Sherlock. All his quirks and oddities.

"What are you talking about?" the hallucination asked.

"You're not real. You aren't really here." John said sadly with his bitter, patient smile. The hallucination looked even more confused.

"Of course I'm real, John. I'm standing right in front of you!" the hallucination said. John shook his head. The hallucination was being persistent this time around. Normally they disappeared after revealing finally that he knew they were fake. This one was staying to torment him further.

"No, you're not. You're just a hallucination. A figment of my broken mind." John told it. The hallucination's face changed slowly. Pain filled its features along with open shock.

"John, how long have you imagined I was with you?" the hallucination asked.

"Sixteen months," John answered, but he felt a little silly doing so. His hallucination knew this already, it was a part of his mind. "Every day, several times." John's gaze flickered from the hallucination to the blood spot and back again. It really was persistent.

"I really am sorry, I know you're not real, but I say it anyway." John could feel the tears now. "I couldn't say it before, not to you're face. I loved you. I still do, and I'm going to be with you." John turned his back on the hallucination and back to the ledge. He moved to stand on it.

"John, no!" the hallucination screamed. John went to tip forwards when he felt a strong grip latch itself to his arm. He was yanked back off the edge onto the rooftop. He landed roughly and he blinked a bit at the hand around his forearm. Pale fingers. He looked up into those silver eyes.

"I've gone mad," John murmured. "I've gone absolutely mental. Now I'm feeling things."

"Dammit John! I'm real!" the hallucination hissed and cool perfect lips pressed against his. John gave the hallucination a small smile.

"No you aren't. Sherlock wouldn't have done that." John told it, now completely convinced. "Sherlock doesn't love me."

"Bloody hell!" a familiar voice cried. "Did you stop him!" John looked to where Lestrade was running towards him. The Detective Inspector looked distraught as he took in John.

"How did you know I was here?" John asked.

"The people downstairs recognized you, and they called the police to report it. I'd told them to if you ever showed up." Lestrade admitted. "Bloody hell, what were you thinking?"

"I don't want to be alone," John murmured. Lestrade's gaze turned hard as he glared to John's side.

"And you!" the Inspector snarled. "What the hell were _you _thinking! Leaving him! Why didn't you come back sooner?!" John's eyes narrowed as he followed Lestrade's gaze. The hallucination looked back with a grim expression. John stared horrified.

"You can see it?" John asked, stomach churning violently. Lestrade gave him a surprised look.

"He doesn't believe that I'm real," the hallucination explained. "Apparently he's been hallucinating for the past sixteen months."

"Jesus, Sherlock." Lestrade breathed. John looked down at the fingers that were still locked around his arm.

"You're real?" he asked in a broken whisper. The hallucination glanced down at him.

"Of course." it said. John's eyes widened further. Sherlock. Not a hallucination. _Sherlock Holmes_. He began to hyperventilate as tremors took over his body. He'd nearly _killed_ himself, all the hallucinations and _pain_ he'd endured.

"Get the _hell_ away from me," John hissed, trying to pull his arm away from Sherlock's cool grasp but was unsuccessful as all his strength seemed to have left him. The detective gave him an unreadable look in response, and suddenly Lestrade was in between the two of them. The DI obviously not thrilled with Sherlock as he'd been there to witness some of John's worst days...and now this.

"Just leave him be," Lestrade warned as John remained on the ground, trying to control his breathing. "You've caused enough damage as is."

"He obviously needs to see someone despite his dislike of his therapist. Attempting to kill oneself and experiencing hallucinations are not signs of a healthy mind." Sherlock replied coolly, all previous emotion that had colored his voice gone now as he addressed Lestrade. It made John's heart ache further.

"Neither is faking your own death," Lestrade snapped.

"It was for your protection. Moriarty would have killed the two of you and Mrs. Hudson if I hadn't jumped." Sherlock defended, and so the argument continued back and forth as if John wasn't even there. As if the man curled in on himself on the ground had simply faded into the background. The doctor looked to the ledge he'd been pulled away from. A small part of him wondered if the two would even notice if he jumped now, or if they'd continue their argument until they heard the sound of his body hitting the pavement. The fact that it was a tempting idea to test out only made him sick to his stomach now.


End file.
